


Sin

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ficlet, M/M, Stripping, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 15:39:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11947332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Spock researches his new captain and discovers an old job’s performance review.





	Sin

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The idea flitters through Spock’s mind for several days before he finally opts to pursue it—for the first few, he reminds himself that the Enterprise’s captaincy is for Starfleet to decide, not him. And Starfleet deemed James T. Kirk— _Jim_ , as he insists on being called—worthy of the job. It isn’t Spock’s place to question that. It isn’t his place to ‘pry.’ 

But there is not institution that can profess complete infallibility, and finally, Spock reasons that it’s in a first officer’s best interest to know all there is to know about their captain. Simply _asking_ Jim of his history would likely result in an over-dramatized fictional retelling—Spock knows by now how humans are. Starfleet records, however, are bound to be more precise. And telling. In the past, particularly during Spock’s academic years, he relied heavily on intensive research. The pursuit of knowledge is a just one.

So, finally, on one simulated night after his usual bridge shift, Spock returns to his quarters, and he settles down before his terminal. He first runs a basic program to disable the monitoring process standard on any officer’s computer—though he knows he’s doing nothing truly _wrong_ , this is hardly an official matter, and there is no reason that Starfleet should know of it. Then he keys into the wide Federation databanks, initiating a simple search for one thing only: _James Tiberius Kirk_.

The file is immediately enormous. It takes the Enterprise’s efficient systems a mere three seconds to compile every record of its current captain, most of which Spock discards without opening—he has, for example, no need to know of Jim’s childhood, nor his adolescence—while Spock considers one’s test scores to carry some significance, those obtained before Starfleet Academy will be of little relevance. What matters to Spock now is how Jim, the man, has built his career. Surely, the highly reckless exploits Spock was witness to cannot be his only credentials. So Spock examines the grades received in all Jim’s classes—not just the ones Spock was privy to back then—and what other qualifications came with it: his extracurricular, his community service, and, Spock notes, his part-time employment.

While it isn’t entirely unusual for students at the Academy to maintain outside jobs, it is for students that sped through it as quickly with as high scores as Jim. So Spock, naturally, pursues the file of Jim’s employment. If Jim has previous management experience, for example, even in something as irrelevant as a grounded retail outlet, it will at least ease Spock to know that Starfleet chose someone with recorded leadership skills. Jim, however, isn’t listed under the employer’s unfamiliar name as anything in management, but simple as ‘ _entertainer_ ’.

That tugs Spock’s lips into a deeper frown—the title suits Jim all too well. It also gives Spock more questions than answers, so he opens the file. 

Jim, apparently, was a ‘ _stage entertainer_ ’ at ‘ _Mudd’s Men_ ’, an establishment Spock’s never heard of. There is no description of either the place or the title. There is, however, a performance review video file. For a moment, Spock hesitates to open it. But then he reminds himself that this is all public record. Starfleet clearly knows of this, and it has no security locks, so clearly, Spock is _allowed_ to watch it. He isn’t particularly fond of the term ‘curiosity,’ but in the pursuit of knowledge, he supposes the idea does bear some merit.

So he clicks, and the video opens, stretching across his entire screen to depict a darkly lit room, where a wooden stage braces the back wall and a few tables and chairs stand before it. A few patrons are seated there, ranging from human to Andorian to Tellarite, all facing the stage. The angle and the poor lighting make it difficult to discern anything of them beyond basic species. There’s a long, metal pole in the center of the stage that Spock can see no use for. He assumes it to be a support beam in a poorly designed location. Then an electronic buzzing sounds, and it takes Spock several beats to realize that the jarring screech is the Terran idea of _music_.

Then, when Spock’s just about ready to dismiss the file, a faint clicking enters from the left, and James Kirk wanders right over to the pole.

Except he isn’t moving like Jim. He looks the same, yes—the same trim form, the same blond hair, the same blue eyes—but his gait is changed, his legs stretching longer, his hips swaying in exaggerated circles, each step coinciding with the ‘music’s’ beat. He wears a uniform somewhat similar to the one he does now—at least, the pants are the same. The shoes are relatively the same, though the heels in the back are taller. The tunic is a lime green instead of gold, and there are no sleeves. A golden sash adorns Jim’s waist, and it glitters in the bright spotlights that descend on him. 

When Jim reaches the pole, he wraps one hand around it, then takes a slow stroll around it, and the seated patrons, to Spock’s confusion, start clapping. One whistles. Jim’s piercing gaze scans the audience, and he winks with a broad grin—a very _human_ gesture that Spock’s still growing used to. Jim’s introduced him to many of those. This is an amalgamation of all of them at once. Jim comes back to the front of the pole and leans casually back against it, his arm stretching up to clasp it above his head.

Then he begins sinking towards the floor, his legs spreading and bending at the knees, opening wider and wider the lower he goes, his hips incrementally jutting forward. His back arches, his head tossing back. Spock watches the yellow strands press into the grey metal, and the taut way Jim’s exposed adam’s apple bobs. His other hand falls to his knee, then traces slowly up his leg, along his inner thigh, until he’s reached—

Spock’s breath hitches. He berates himself instantly for the loss of control. Jim bucks forward, then begins rising again, moving his hips fluidly from side to side as he does, the hand currently cupping his crotch running up his middle. It catches on the sash, lifts the shirt a few centimeters up his toned stomach, then rubs broadly across his chest. His pupils seem to have dilated, his lashes lowered slightly—Spock’s learned too much of Jim to not see the difference. There’s a faint flush to Jim’s cheeks, and then Jim’s on his feet again, and the music changes.

It pulsates, blearing loud as the lights dance in tune to it, and Jim spins to face the pole, thrusting his hips into it, legs spread around it, and the way he arches his entire body makes Spock’s fingers tighten into his palms. Jim takes a step out, turning his back to the audience, and does the movement again, and this time, Spock realizes just how much tighter those pants are than Starfleet-issue ones: he can see the cheeks of Jim’s tight rear dimpling with each thrust, and when Jim thrusts out, Spock seems to see _everything_.

In another heartbeat, Jim’s spun around, and now he struts away from the pole, coming to the center of the stage, gyrating the entire way, his long fingers threaded into his hair before sliding slowly down his face, grabbing and squeezing his pectorals, and smoothing down to his jutting hips. He takes hold of the sash and undoes it with a simple flick of his wrist, then has the shimmering fabric above his head, and he swirls it in the air a few times before tossing it out. The crowd goes wild. What Spock thought was a relatively small room sounds like a jam-packed cavern, and a chorus of whistles and applause bring a knowing smirk to Jim’s handsome face. 

His hands fall to the bottom of his shirt, and Spock realizes it’s folded over itself in the front more like a vest than a tunic. Jim kneads the fabric in a useless, teasing sort of motion, then begins to sink lower again, until he’s hit his knees. He spreads his legs open as his chest leans back, crotch thrust forward, and he rips the shirt open all in one fluid motion that brings on the clamour of banging on tables and ruckus cheers. 

Spock’s... _mortified_. This is his _captain_. And he has no right to see this. He can’t believe Starfleet has this on record. He can’t believe Jim _did_ this. Spock doesn’t understand the _why_ of it, but he can see the _what_ well enough—whatever the purpose, this is something wholly, wildly _sexual_ , guttural and beyond the scope of civilized species. But Jim doesn’t seem to care. He grins at his crowd and bucks his hips forward, holding his shirt open to show off his chiseled abs, and he writhes on stage, on his knees, like an undisciplined youth in _pon farr_.

Or like a _le-matya_ in heat. There’s something almost _animal_ about the way Jim licks his lips, the way he dips both thumbs into the waistband of his pants. Spock doesn’t believe he’d go that far. But Spock doesn’t close the file. Spock _stares_ , and Jim springs back up, hips now swaying with an incredible ease, and then he turns around and shoves his pants right down his ass, hooked just beneath the plush cheeks that spill out over it, and only a single strip of black fabric running between obscures the view. The audience hollers as Jim pushes his pants further, bending right down to the floor to shove them off. Rather than standing up again, his legs split over his head, careening back until he’s standing right against the pole again, wearing nothing but a single piece of material that Spock would hardly consider underwear. The only thing it covers on Jim’s crotch is his cock and balls. There’s a scruff of blond hair above it, but otherwise, his body is smooth. And it seems to glisten beneath the stage lights. Jim leans back against the pole, one hand darting up to grip it, while the other slips inside the underwear to cup himself, and he actually tosses his head back to _moan_.

Even with the crowd’s din, Spock can hear every syllable. It snakes through him like some hideous disease, shattering nerve endings and hard-fought control at every turn. Jim bites his bottom lip, chews it, then licks both to leave them slick and pink. He brings both hands to the sides of the underwear, then suddenly withdraws, wagging a finger, and instead starts kicking off his shoes.

Spock’s breathing has become erratic. There might be something wrong with him. He doesn’t know why he’s still watching; he has no right to, except now he can’t _not_ look, because Jim’s about to—but Jim only pushes the underwear halfway down his hips. It shows off the hump of his cock, the base of a thick, pink shaft, engorged and tenting the fabric—Spock can see how largely it’s poking forward, can imagine just how long it is, and Jim runs his hands down his thighs just around it, highlighting it, but diverting up to pinch his nipples instead, rubbing them until they pebble under his sensual attention. He grinds against the pole as he touches himself, looking increasingly more flushed, hazy-eyed, panting hard, wanting—

The music ends suddenly. Jim steps forward and bows from the waist. The crow roars. Then Jim gathers up his clothes off the floor and walks off stage at a completely normal pace, as though nothing unusual happened at all.

A meaty hand appears in front of the recorder in the human expression of a ‘thumbs up.’ Spock takes that to mean that Jim passed his performance review.

The file ends. The usual message for streamed media appears in its place, asking to know whether Spock would like to close the file or download it to his terminal for further perusal.

Spock’s stomach feels unusually empty. He realizes belatedly that he’s dug deep enough into his own hands to make his knuckles green. He feels... unusually hot, on a ship that’s always felt cold. 

His fingers hesitate over the button. He can’t bring himself to give the voice-activated command.

He murmurs, “Fascinating.” And saves the file for future research.


End file.
